


Capturing the Unpredictable

by KateKintail



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Common Cold, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 09:37:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateKintail/pseuds/KateKintail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto isn’t feeling well and doesn’t want to leave the hub.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Capturing the Unpredictable

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own these boys, much as I’d like to. Therefore, this is just for fun and I don’t make any money from it
> 
> Spoilers: Massive spoilers for Torchwood Series 2
> 
> Challenge: Written for WWOMB Author’s Choice #349: Head cold - any pairing - any length. Use this list of words in a story of some sort (drabble/poem/snippet): Head cold, swollen, lounger, stormy, Cancun

Captain Jack Harkness is a lot of things. He’s handsome and sexy, brilliant and experienced, strong and, oh yeah, immortal. Jack is also unpredictable. He lives and works here in the Torchwood hub, yet it’s impossible to know when he’ll actually be here. This morning, I needed his signature on a stack of forms—you’d think that saving Cardiff from monsters day in and day out would give you some sort of tax exemption for your secret organization’s public front, but no. Jack was nowhere to be found when I needed him, so I left the paperwork on his desk and carried on.

Once upon a time, we had five capable people working here. Now we’re down to three and the workload is only growing. I don’t mind a hard day’s work… I would just prefer to do it with Jack around and without the raging head cold.

The weevil’s wet eyes stare straight at me, and I turn away. Feeding time is hard enough without it evaluating me and, most likely, deciding I am too weak to put up a fight. The cell will hold, however, keeping it from me. And now what I need is some tea to help me hold out for the rest of the day.

Torchwood wasn’t your typical nine-to-five workplace. There could be—and usually is—rift activity in the middle of the night or some super alien crisis to protect the planet from when you least expect it. Feeling a bit under the weather is no excuse to go home. Of course, now that we are doctor-less, there are no fancy advanced pills to combat dreadful symptoms. I’ll have to rely on common sense: a hot cup of tea and a good rest would probably do wonders for my ailment.

I trudge up the stairs, shivering a bit. It’s not especially chilly down there, but I do always seem to run a slight fever when I’m ill. The chills will most assuredly dissipate in the presence of tea. I run water into the kettle and put it on a burner. The microwave would be faster, I realize, as I’m only making this for one person. But I could probably finish off an entire pot alone right now, so it’s just as well I let my autopilot take over.

I lean against a counter, staring at the kettle. My eyelids droop down, head bows. I’m exhausted and I feel like I haven’t done anything to make me tired. There are times, when working here, I can’t even make it home and have to make do with the couch here in the hub or, if I’m lucky, Jack’s bed. For someone who claims he doesn’t sleep, Jack sure does have an amazing bed. It’s always warm, soft, and clean with pillows you sink into and a comforter so thick it weights you down like a welcome body. I’d give almost anything to be able to crawl into that bed right now and sleep for a week—two, if I could swing it.

My eyes open. How long have they been closed? I couldn’t have been asleep for more than a minute. How long as the water been heating? Two minutes? Three? Feels like twenty. My head is pounding. A shiver courses through me. My nose runs and I sniff too hard in reaction. My scratchy throat protests, even though it knows tea is on the way. I direct the coughs into my sleeve, quieting them only a little. They sound bad. I sound  _ill_.

“We don’t have anything major going on,” Jack says, walking with his usual swagger as he enters the kitchen. “You should go home if you’re feeling sick.”

He sounds so sure of himself, so cold and boss-like, so very  _American_. I want to tell him there’s nothing wrong with my stomach, that it’s all in my head. A bloody awful head cold I thought for sure I’d be able to shake by now but that just keeps getting worse and worse until, I’m fairly certain, it will flood my head and make it explode under the pressure.

“No, I’m fine.”

Jack puts whatever he retrieved from the fridge onto the counter and turns to face me, the range in-between us. He leans against the counter, too, but not for support. He does it in that casual, suave sort of way that’s both egotistical and so fucking sexy I’d jump over there and rip his clothes off if I could.

Saved by the kettle whistle. I dive for it and pour water over tealeaves I don’t even remember measuring out. I don’t even care that it’s burning hot and not done steeping when I lift the cup to my lips and drink a bit of hot liquid down. It coats my throat, and the scratches seem instantly gone. I sigh a little louder that I meant to and shake my head. “Really, Jack, I’m fine.”

He winks and gives me that look, like he’s the big bad wolf and wants to eat me up. “Oh yes you are  _fine_.” He steps forward. “But you’ve also got one hell of a virus and should be at home in bed.”

I shake my head and cup the mug in both hands. It’s comforting just holding it. It’s a wrench when I have to put it down, but I feel a sneeze coming on and the last thing I need is to burn myself. My breath catches as I raise my arm, and my whole body shakes with the strength of the sneeze. It’s wet and messy and, oh God, my suit’s going to need a good cleaning now. I search my pocket. There’s a fresh hanky somewhere. I put four in this morning. But I can’t find the fourth. Maybe I only had three. Or maybe I went through four already and I’ve lost count.

Jack clears his throat and I look up just as he shoves a bunch of tissues into my face. Where they came from, exactly, I don’t know, but I don’t care. I snuffle and sniffle and cough and manage them with one hand while reaching for the tea with the other. I lean into the counter more for support and alternate rubbing and sipping until I feel Jack’s hands on my shoulders.

He moves his hands inward, fingers rubbing then scanning and pressing. I cringe and pull back before he finds out how swollen my lymph nodes are.

“Didn’t think you’d mind me checking, seeing as how you’re fine.” When I don’t offer myself up, he grins. “You’ve either got a cold or you’re well and will let me verify it. Which will it be?”

“I’m not ill.” But another sneeze is on its way, about to prove Jack’s point and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I’ve got to sneeze. “I- _iihhhh…_ ” My eyes flutter closed and he takes the tea I’ve forgotten about from my hand. “ _IhhhhTchushhhhh!_ ” It’s dreadfully wet and terrible, but when Jack takes me in his arms, damn it, I’m sort of glad for it. He’s  _here._  I’m just not sure for how long.

He strokes the back of my head. I burrow against his greatcoat, wondering if he went out just to get me Kleenex when all he needed to do to make me feel better was this. “Fine. I’m ill. Don’t make me go home,” I mumble. “Just _sniff_  take me to bed.” I cough and add, “and bring the tea.”

It’s one in the afternoon when I am installed in Jack’s bed. I’ve never been much of a lounger during the day, especially when there’s work to be done. But my head’s pounding away and if I don’t hold a tissue to my nose I don’t like to imagine what could happen. That makes it pretty impossible to get any quality work done. At least the weevil’s been fed.

Jack braved the stormy weather outside for more than just a pack of tissues. I’ve got boxes of them, two kinds of cough drops, a hot water bottle, pain killers, and a bottle of some goopy purple syrup that looks so putrid I find myself expecting Owen to come back to life a second time just to laugh at me attempting to drink it.

Nothing makes me feel as good as when Jack joins me under the covers. I don’t even care that we’re both wearing some semblance of clothes that get in the way, because I’m too tired to respond if he makes a move, which he doesn’t, surprisingly. He just slides up behind me and wraps his arms around me. I shiver a little and he feels my forehead with the back of his hand to see if I have a fever. It’s just a head cold. It’s not even cause to worry. It’s just enough to make me feel miserable, but not enough to knock me out. It’s enough to make me feel like I should be doing something, not enough to incapacitate me. It’s enough to make me wish I could do more than lie there with Jack against me.

“Guess that trip to Cancun’s out.”

I smile at the thought, as if such a thing had even been on the table. We’ve barely gone out in public, let alone out on holiday. But as nice was hot, sandy beaches far far away from any rifts in time and space sound, going somewhere surrounded by beautiful young men and women wearing virtually nothing and catching Jack’s eye doesn’t sound so appealing. If we went somewhere, I’d want him all to myself. How is it possible to be self-conscious and jealous of the entire population of a city while in bed, being held tight by this man?

My nose needs blowing, and I turn my head into the pillow. It sounds awful. Where is all this coming from? And why does it have to be this bad? Why isn’t it one of those simple little head colds with a couple sneezes and coughs that hangs around a day or two before vanishing? This thing just keeps getting worse. Pretty soon all I’ll be able to do is lie here and sneeze and look so pathetic and alone.

“Ianto?”

I turn my head a little, barely able to glimpse him behind me.

His smile does lovely, squirmy, tingly things to my body, and he squeezes me tighter against his hard body. “Quit thinking and just go to sleep or you’ll never get any better.” He presses a kiss to the back of my neck, and then another. Normally, it might make me shiver, but the repetition is more comforting than anything else. Jack doesn’t sleep, so I wonder if he’ll still be kissing me like this when I wake up.


End file.
